


why do you always leave in the morning light

by 17kylie_readsalot17



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Late Night Confessions, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:30:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17kylie_readsalot17/pseuds/17kylie_readsalot17
Summary: “Angel, please just talk to me.”The way he pinched his brow showed he was trying to find the words, but just couldn’t. Finally, exasperated, he said, “Oh, you know I don’t sleep well,” as though that explained everything.Crowley just wants to wake up next to Aziraphale. Certain things make that difficult.





	why do you always leave in the morning light

In the days after Armageddon failed to happen, and Heaven and Hell failed to execute the rogue principality and demon, the rogue principality and demon spent countless hours together. They didn’t see each other  _every_ day, of course—Aziraphale did have a bookshop to pretend to run and Crowley had his plants to terrorize—but at least four days a week ended with one spending the night at the other’s place. They quickly developed a schedule that resulted from the lack of surveillance from their superiors and a freedom they’d lacked before. 

After dinner at the Ritz, they would go back to Aziraphale’s bookstore. They would drink wine, hanging off of the old couch in the back of the store, while Aziraphale smiled lazily at Crowley, who would soon after be dozing off, his feet tucked beneath the cushions. After he fell asleep, Aziraphale would slip off of the couch and into the armchair so Crowley could stretch out as he normally did when he slept. Then he would sit there the rest of the evening, wile the time away drinking cocoa and reading his books. 

After they met at the Saint James’ Park to walk or picnic, they would go back to Crowley’s flat. There, too, they would drink wine and sit on the couch. But the couch at the flat was far less comfortable, and Crowley couldn’t fall asleep without all the pillows and amenities of the bookshop couch. So, after they’d finished their third or thirtieth bottle (depending on the day, the time, the weather) Crowley would stand and miracle away their glasses and ask Aziraphale to spend the night. Aziraphale would never say no, as up until that point the evening were always lovely, and he was never one to put a damper on Crowley’s mood if he could help it, but the nights he spent at the Mayfair flat were never pleasant after Crowley fell asleep. 

Three weeks of this routine landed Aziraphale at Crowley’s flat, waking with a start in the early hours of the morning. Though the panic in him dimmed when he remembered where he was, and saw Crowley sleeping just beside him, his face tucked into the pillow. Aziraphale ran his hand gently through Crowley’s hair before standing up. He wrote a quick note on the nice stationary left on the bedside table, explaining his absence with an excuse of opening the bookstore, only believable because of the utter insanity of his hours. 

Then, dressed suddenly in his day clothes, he left the bedroom. On his way to the front door, he stopped in front of Crowley’s office. He pushed the door open and looked at the sketch of the Mona Lisa he now knew hid a thick-walled safe—the vault he’d seen Crowley closing carefully the night after Armageddon. 

Aziraphale heaved a sigh then shut the strange revolving door behind him and left Crowley’s flat. 

Aziraphale had only slept over at Crowley’s flat few times, but never had Crowley woken up with Aziraphale beside him, as he so hoped to do one day. He supposed Aziraphale couldn’t be faulted. He wasn’t one to sleep often. But still, waking to an empty apartment when you’d gone to bed with someone beside you was never a pleasant feeling. 

Crowley groaned as the sun shone through the window and into his grey room. He read the note, frowned, then picked up his cell from beside the bed. It only rang twice before he heard “A. Z. Fell’s bookshop, how may I help you?” from the other end and the sound of music playing softly on a gramophone. 

That might’ve been the first time he’d ever called Aziraphale and not been met with ‘We’re most definitely closed.’

“Really had to open your bookshop at five in the morning on a Saturday?” Crowley grumbled, before clearing his throat. 

“I most certainly did, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, though his voice didn’t carry the playfulness his words did. “Have to keep things consistent, haven’t I?” 

“Suppose so.” Crowley rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling. “How long will you be open?”

“Until four, maybe? Whatever is the strangest time to close a bookshop on a Saturday.”

“I’d say nine is worse. What do you say we meet at the park after you close up? Sun should shine today.”

“We picnicked yesterday, my dear.”

“Dinner then, doesn’t matter to me.” Crowley bit his tongue. He didn’t like to sound so desperate, but what else was he going to do with himself if Aziraphale didn’t join him, spend his day alone pacing his apartment? “There’s a new Thai restaurant nearby my flat, I’ve heard good things. What do you say?”

Aziraphale paused for a moment, then let out a soft breath. “Dinner sounds lovely. How about I call you once I close up?” 

“Call my cell,” Crowley said, then hung up.

He spent a good portion of the morning alone pacing his flat, but within an hour he was bored out of his mind and ready for fresh air. He did have other things to do besides wait for Aziraphale. Even if they were somewhat limited these days, given he was out of a job with Hell. 

He snapped and threw on an outfit he’d seen in a magazine recently, then stepped out. A few minutes drive in the Bentley and he was outside the plant nursery nearby. He preferred getting his houseplants from more expensive and luxurious vendors, but he’d had a recent incident with his plant mister, and watering using a plastic cup from the kitchen hadn’t been cutting it. He’d just stepped out of the Bentley and slammed the door when his phone rang. He picked it up quickly, expecting a telemarketer he could harass but was surprised when Aziraphale spoke. “Nine thirteen is as good a time as any to kick out my only customer so far, isn’t it?” he asked. He sounded different than he had when Crowley had called earlier. He sounded better. 

Crowley couldn’t help but grin as he sauntered inside the store. “Suppose so.”

“Where are you at, my dear?”

“Remember where we got that bouquet for the baker opening up across the street?”

“I do,” Aziraphale said at the same time Crowley heard the old fashioned click of a phone being hung up in its cradle. 

Crowley looked at his phone for a moment before he saw Aziraphale next to the trellises decorating the entryway of the nursery. He’d been much more willing to perform miracles since the absolute radio silence from Heaven began, but Crowley still wasn’t used to those sudden and brazen appearances. 

“You don’t shop here usually,” Aziraphale stated, smiling at Crowley as he slid his phone back into his pocket. 

“Nah, just needed to grab something quick. Thought you were going to stay open this afternoon.”

“Well, nine is worse than four,” he said simply, fixing his bow tie. While Crowley went to find a new mister, Aziraphale wandered the perennials and then, since Crowley was a very particular plant owner and took a very long time picking out simple items, onto the house plants. By the time Crowley had picked up a mister he didn’t hate and finally found Aziraphale, he was speaking fondly to a bonsai tree with slightly yellowed leaves. 

“Find something?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale straightened. 

“No no, just giving some encouragements to this fellow here.”

“Seems like he could use it. Why don’t you grab it, angel? A day of encouragements from you would have it set to rights I’m sure.”

Aziraphale considered it for a moment, then picked up the plastic pot gently. “It’ll need a nicer pot than this. Confidence is key, right?”

Crowley smiled and led Aziraphale towards the ceramic pots. He leaned against the wall as Aziraphale looked through the aisle. “You’re gonna want one with drainage,” he called and Aziraphale nodded absently. 

They passed the rest of the morning at the nursery, then back at the bookshop as they repotted the tree and found a spot with enough light for it in the backroom. The whole time, Aziraphale wavered between his normal temperament and distractedness. Crowley excused this by convincing himself Aziraphale was just thinking about lunch, but even at the Thai restaurant there were moments of unusual silence. 

When Aziraphale failed to respond to the waitress asking if he’d like a refill, Crowley cleared his throat and asked for the bill before finally asking, “You alright?”

“Of course, dear. Just a little worn out I suppose. Nothing that won’t be better tomorrow.”

“Let’s head back to mine then,” Crowley offered. “Quiet night in, I won’t even break out the alcohol.”

“That sounds lovely,” he said and stood up as Crowley put his credit card back into his wallet. “Oh, is my copy of Herodotus at your place?”

It hadn’t been. It had been sitting in Aziraphale’s kitchenette. But by the time Crowley said “Yup,” it was in Crowley’s living room next to a steeping cup of tea. 

They rode back in the Bentley and when Aziraphale stepped inside the flat to see the steam rising from the tea next to his book, he gave Crowley a smile that made him completely forget why he’d been worried in the first place. 

He took the tag off of his new mister and began to tend to his plants as Aziraphale read. It was a quiet night in, as promised, and ended with Aziraphale once again tentatively agreeing to spend the night. While watching Aziraphale climb into what was now his side of the bed and relishing the way the mattress dipped towards his added weight of companionship, Crowley prepared himself to wake up alone without that soft feeling in the pit of his stomach. He however did not prepare himself for the panic that would accompany the empty bed. 

In the middle of the night, with the moon shining directly into the center of the room, Crowley shot out of bed as a blast and a crackling of celestial energy sounded from the center of his flat. “Aziraphale?” he asked to the quiet room. There was no response, but a second later the blast came again, louder. There was no way another angel would come to Crowley’s flat, there was no reason they should. If they wanted to accost Aziraphale they would know better than to come to a demon’s den to do so. But why else would his flat be nearly suffocating with holiness in the air? 

The slightest singing of his skin was unpleasant, but didn’t burn, and it was nothing compared to the fear crawling under it as he approached his office. He had no weapon and he was too frazzled to think of one to conjure, but he kicked open the door anyway as another wave of energy surged through the room, finally blowing a hole through the safe behind the (unharmed) Mona Lisa. 

“Angel?” Crowley asked and Aziraphale whipped around. His eyes were wide and he was shaking. His hands were burned from forcing his way through the curses Crowley had secured the safe with, and they were twitching as he paused in reaching inside. “What’s going on, what are you doing?”

“Crowley, please give it to me,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling, skin crackling, eyes bright blue. He was clearly shaken, disturbed. 

“What?” was all Crowley could manage as he forced his way through the room, sportingly ignoring how tight the energy had made his breathing. 

“The holy water, please give it to me. It’s not safe, it shouldn’t be anywhere near you, I should never—”

“Angel—”

“It was a mistake, you never should’ve had it. Give it to me, please. Let me get rid of it.” His face was twisted in pain and his voice was ragged. “Please—”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted, finally close enough to reach out to touch Aziraphale, but he found he couldn’t. He had never seen Aziraphale in this state before, and he didn’t know whether contact would hurt just one or even both of them. “It’s gone already. I used it, remember? I killed Ligur with it. You helped me clean this office the night after Armageddon. They leveled that charge against me—you, during my trial.”

Aziraphale looked into the safe he’d demolished and ran a blistered hand along the base. Finding no flask, he pulled back slowly then tried to speak, but ended up sinking to his knees on the floor. 

While the safe didn’t quit smoking and the air remained a touch too holy for comfort, Aziraphale’s eyes dimmed and the energy crackling along his skin dissipated. 

Crowley reached out tentatively, and when Aziraphale’s skin didn’t burn him, he immediately pulled him up to hold him close. “Angel, what happened. What is this?”

Aziraphale shook his head, so Crowley waited. He took Aziraphale’s hands in his and willed away the dark energy of the curse as best he could. Soon Aziraphale sat back up, pushing himself up with his hand on Crowley’s arms. “Oh dear. Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry,” he said, looking around the room at the wall he’d nearly blown through. “I can’t believe I did that.” 

Before he could finish, Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks and leveled their eyes. “Don’t look at the wall, the wall doesn’t matter. Aziraphale, what  _happened_.” 

“It was—” they both saw him leading up to ‘nothing’  and Aziraphale froze as Crowley’s eyes narrowed and dropped to his hands, no longer cursed but still hurt in a way a demon couldn’t heal. “I don’t know.”

“Angel, please just talk to me.”

The way he pinched his brow showed he was trying to find the words, but just couldn’t. Finally, exasperated, he said, “Oh, you know I don’t sleep well,” as though that explained everything. 

He stood up, swaying only slightly, and began walking from the room. Crowley watched him for a moment before scrambling to his feet and following Aziraphale to the kitchen. He watched Aziraphale fret over his hands for just a moment before he moved to fill the kettle and put it on. After he had set up two teacups and placed the bags in each and had nothing left to preoccupy himself with, he just stood, silently facing away from Crowley, looking out the window in the corner of the kitchen. 

“You know I don’t sleep well,” he said again. “I never have, but... Since Armageddon—since the trial it’s been so much worse. I’ve never had nightmares before. When I slept before it was just nothingness, just closing my eyes at night and opening them in the morning. It wasn’t anything special, but it wasn’t terrible either. But now... now... well, now it’s—“ the kettle shrieked, far too soon for it to have boiled on its own, clearly done on purpose to interrupt his explanation. 

Crowley intercepted Aziraphale’s reach for the kettle. He caught him gently by the wrist to pull his hand away, then turned off the burner, leaning back against the stove to keep Aziraphale away from the kettle. Aziraphale grimaced, then brought his hands together to wring them nervously before remembering how badly damaged they were and gasping quietly. 

“During your trial, after Michael had brought the water, Lord Beelzebub wanted to test it to make sure it was the real thing. Hastur threw some—some bystander in first and—oh Crowley, please, the water is going to cool down too much. Let me finish making the tea.” Aziraphale interrupted himself again, voice so tight with pain that Crowley had to concede for a moment and let Aziraphale pour the water and collect himself without having to meet Crowley’s eyes.

The water steamed up around Aziraphale’s face as he poured it, reflecting the street light that shone in through the window. He took his time, but Crowley gave it without complaint. He was no stranger to waiting while Aziraphale took his time. When he did speak again, he spoke to the tea cups instead of Crowley. “I’ve never seen what holy water really did to a demon before. I  knew . I knew but I didn’t think it would be so terrible. So painful. And all I could think of, the whole time the whole rest of the trial, all I could think was that I’d given you holy water. I’d given you the means to your own horrible and painful end, so many things could have gone wrong.”

“But nothing did go wrong—”

“Nothing went wrong?!” Aziraphale turned around, suddenly frantic. “Nothing went wrong? If nothing had gone wrong I wouldn’t have had to lock myself in your office for hours so I could banish every last drop of holy water that might’ve splashed anywhere in the room. You would’ve never cracked the flask open.”

“You were only in there a few minutes, angel. It was late, we went to bed—”

“I don’t  _sleep_ , Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, his hands trembling. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet. “I spent all night in there after you’d gone to bed. And the next day I saw that demon killed. I had to sit in a bathtub full of holy water that was meant to destroy your essence, wipe you from existence.” He paused for a moment, turning back around. “I am sorry for the safe. I’ll put it back to rights. It was just a nightmare. I’ve never had them before so it just takes a while for me to remember what’s real. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done that.”

“You’ve had others?”

Aziraphale nodded. “None quite so bad as that one.” 

Crowley set his hand on Aziraphale’s arm, tugging him slightly to turn him around. He needed to see Aziraphale’s eyes for this. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What would I have said,” Aziraphale asked miserably, trying to meet Crowley’s gaze, but flickering his eyes about the kitchen. “‘No Crowley, I  won’t spend the night with you, since sleeping beside you fills me with a terrible knowledge of what I could have lost—that I could’ve ruined you by giving you that water. That I have to deny you—and myself—the feeling of waking up in the arms of the person you—’”

Crowley had stopped breathing when Aziraphale said his name, and couldn’t start again after Aziraphale had trailed off, because “the arms of the person you what?” he asked quietly. Aziraphale’s eyes had grown wide again and his hands hovered just under Crowley’s arms. He didn’t speak. “Aziraphale, the person you what?”

“The person you love,” he breathed, nearly silent. “Crowley, I want nothing more than to wake up beside you, but I can’t do that when I can’t sleep. I can’t do that when I’m still living with this guilt, this feeling of dread—”

Crowley moved his hands in a second from steadying Aziraphale’s arms to cupping his cheeks. “Do you love me?”

“Of course. You must know that, Crowley—you must.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long, how long without saying anything?”

“Without say... Oh, my dear boy, I really thought you knew.”

“I bloody well didn’t,” Crowley wanted to hiss but found himself so breathless and no where near angry enough to do so. “How long?”

Aziraphale looked anywhere but Crowley’s eyes, even though Crowley held his head still. His eyes darted to the ceiling, to the mugs behind them, then finally settled on the tattoo by Crowley’s ear. “As a person—a being, I’ve loved you as I love All creatures since the beginning, on that wall. But I came to love you as you love me when you broke my heart in Saint James’ Park. I couldn’t understand how you’d broken it until I realized I’d already given it to you. Then, when I finally gave you the water, that...”

“That was your confession,” Crowley whispered. 

He’d played that conversation over in his head thousands of times. He remembered the lighting, the heat of the summer air in the Bentley, the sadness in Aziraphale’s eyes and his voice when he said—

Crowley shook his head. “Okay—alright, okay, that’s good to know and we’re talking about this—that again. Soon. Right after this.” He took a moment to focus himself, not sure how that revelation had come up here and now when Aziraphale was still so shaken and hurt. “Aziraphale, that water, that flask, it saved my life. Hastur and Ligur were about to drag me back to Hell kicking and screaming, without it they’d have succeeded. Without it I’d be gone. I know how hard it was and... seems to still be, but you saved my life. And the nightmares—I get them too. About your trial, but about everything else too.” About the flood, the plague, the wars. He’d been around long enough to have nightmares about everything. Crowley didn’t state that fact out loud, but Aziraphale knew what he meant. “I don’t know how hard they are for you and I can’t tell you they’ll get easier, but I could help.” He only wished he spoke from experience when he said “Waking up from a nightmare is so much easier with someone by your side. Someone there to comfort you—”

Crowley’s hands on Aziraphale’s cheeks were about to slide down to fall by his side, but Aziraphale reached up to cover them with his own—an action gentle both because of the pain in his hands and because Aziraphale was a gentle man—and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s lips. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there to comfort you. I’ve been trying so hard to work through this alone, I didn’t consider that you might need me here. You shouldn’t have to wait for me to be ready to have the support you need.”

Crowley was too stunned to speak, Aziraphale was too close for him to speak, but all at once not close enough. Crowley leaned in to close the distance again and Aziraphale met him with another, even softer kiss. 

“Well...” Aziraphale said, after Crowley had pulled back and was simply staring at him with his unblinking eyes. “About that other thing.”

Crowley cleared his throat and moved his hands from under Aziraphale’s to clutch at Aziraphale’s arms and steady himself. “That you’ve loved me back since then 19th century and didn’t tell me until today?”

“That.”

“Mmh.”

Aziraphale swallowed, then gave a cautious smile. “Look at that, we’ve talked about it.”

Crowley raised a brow then let out a laugh so loud the neighbors would’ve complained if they could hear a single thing that went on in Crowley’s soundproof flat. 

“Well, darling. Why don’t we... I can’t, not tonight I won’t be able to sleep again. But let’s go back to bed. I’ll stay all night, Crowley.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, he blinked and the tea was sitting beside Aziraphale’s side of the bed along with the History of Herodotus. “Alright. But tomorrow—we can talk more tomorrow? We can work this all out?”

“Of course, my dear. In the morning,” Aziraphale said. It was a promise that he’d be there, and that for once Crowley wouldn’t wake up alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Communication is hard! Being honest about your problems is worse.
> 
> The title is from the song Diana by the Sounds.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
